Keep dreaming, pal.
At the start of week two, the management team met to discuss the first round of cuts.
Some guys had been invited to training camp on a professional tryout to see if they meshed with our permanent roster and had the skills to compete. Others were on a two-way contract and could move between the Speed and our minor league affiliate in Cincinnati when we needed them.
Most of our up-and-coming talent had been on the Cincinnati roster last year and would be headed back there soon to continue developing.
I had been fortunate to spend a few years in college before earning a one-way contract, meaning I couldn’t be sent down to the minors. I couldn’t imagine how much of a mindfuck it was for some of these guys, especially the older ones still trying to break onto that bigger stage, to be sent back year after year.
Hockey was a mental game as much as it was a physical one. You could have all the skills in the world, but if you lacked confidence, it impacted your game. You couldn’t afford to second-guess your choices; you had to act on instinct and believe you had the ability to make every play successful.
That brought us to the player we’d been deliberating over for an hour—Sasha Gusev, or Goose, as the guys called him.
Sasha was a Russian-born, American-raised goalie who had played in Cincinnati for a few years. The Speed had drafted him in the third round, and he had gone the college route before signing his entry-level contract. Those three years were spent entirely with our minor league team. Over the summer, we’d signed him to a slightly larger contract as a restricted free agent, and after that one expired, he could explore his options with other teams.
At twenty-five, he was entering his prime, and I liked what I had seen from him during camp. Jared, along with his assistant GM, Randy Calvert, and the President of Hockey Operations, Paul Davenport, disagreed with my assessment that it was time to pull him up to the Speed.
“Maddox, I get that you like him and that he’s young and eager, but his stats are almost identical to Fox’s.” Jared referenced our current backup goalie, Zander Fox.
Randy chimed in. “It doesn’t make sense to replace a goalie who has experience playing the back-up role with a goalie who doesn’t. Especially when, on paper, they’re similar. It would be an even swap.”
I shook my head. “Screw the stats. I’ve been on the ice with Fox in net. He gets frustrated when he lets in a few goals, leading to more. Goose is different. Both from what I’ve seen this week in camp and from studying film of him playing for the Crawlers, he lets it roll off his back. It’s mildly unsettling how nothing bothers the guy, but it’s a hell of a temperament for a goaltender. He’s an asset to this team, even in a backup capacity.”
Jared sighed, starting to waver. “His contract is two million less on the salary cap than Fox’s . . .”
“Come on,” I begged. “Give him a chance. He’s got the makings of a great goalie. Just needs an opportunity to showcase his skills.”
Paul grumbled but agreed. “I think we have to listen to Maddox on this one. We brought him in to coach because he knew the players so well. Plus, that extra couple of million could snag us a decent fourth liner.”
Adrenaline surged in my veins. It wasn’t the same kind of battle as skating beside them on the ice, but I was fighting for my boys just the same.
Tapping his pen on the desk, Jared finally gave in. “Okay. Goose is in; Fox goes down to Cincinnati. Maddox, you let both men know and then make the announcement to the press the next time you speak with them.”
I wanted to fist pump the air but kept my cool. Damn, if that first victory didn’t feel good.
Nodding, I said, “I’ve got it handled.”
Jared closed his tablet and stood, as did the other men attending our small meeting. “Next week, after the first couple of preseason games, we’ll meet again to make the last round of cuts and finalize the roster for the season. Lots of work to do if we plan on making it back to the Finals.”
We all made noises of agreement, and the meeting was adjourned.
I couldn’t wait to see Goose’s face when I told him he was getting to stay in Indy. However, it would be up to him to keep his spot. If he faltered, I couldn’t stop management from switching him out with Fox.
I blew out a heavy breath.
Being the Speed’s captain was one thing. In that position, I wore many hats—welcome wagon, cheerleader, drinking buddy, emotional support. But at the end of the day, my primary focus was on strengtheningmygame.
As their coach, I had to worry about everyone’s game. And it was enough to keep me awake most nights.
I headed off to crush one man’s dreams while making another’s come true, quickly reminded that my new job wasn’t for the faint of heart.
My whistle was trapped between my teeth as I blew it at regular intervals, indicating for the next group of players to proceed through the drill. I should have been focused on my team, making mental notes about their play and cataloging what critiques I would share with them later. But instead, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from Braxton making hand motions through the glass at a blushing Bristol in the stands.
When she waved back and playfully mouthed “stop,” I lost it.
Spitting out my whistle, knowing the attached lanyard would keep it around my neck, I screamed, “Slate! Over here now!”
Braxton spun around, eyes wide, but skated over without delay. Coming to a hard hockey stop before me, he asked, “What’s up, Coach?”
